Power and Control
by privatephilosopher
Summary: It always thrills Brittany to watch Santana getting her way. (House of Cards!Brittana)
1. we give and take a little more

Disclaimer: Obviously, I own absolutely nothing. This is all derivative (what isn't?). Credit belongs to _Glee_ (regrettably), _House of Cards_ (deliciously), and Marina and the Diamonds (rightfully; _Power and Control_ was the only song I listened to while writing).

A/N: I repeated the first season of _HoC_ while I was packing today. It made me miss feeling like a cold-hearted, calculating bitch; I can't believe how effective Jesuit education was in reforming me. Hah. Anyway, this is me giving the evil inside an opportunity to live a little bit. After all, who doesn't love an anti-hero every now and then?

* * *

we give and take a little more

Sometimes Brittany can't believe how easy it is. She watches Santana make a round around the room, navigating the crowd with that trademark Lopez expertise: she avoids the people she has no interest in, shakes hands with the many that she does, and smiles at the select few she almost likes.

The first time Santana makes an actual stop is to speak to the shining President-Elect himself, William Shuster. From where she stands, Brittany watches them shake hands, before Shuster tosses head back and laughs at something Santana says. Santana then turns to Shuster's wife, Emma, and kisses her hand gracefully. Emma blushes and speaks; Santana turns and points directly at Brittany. When the Shusters spot her, they wave, and Brittany grins and waves back.

It looks simple, and in some ways, Brittany supposes that it is. Earlier tonight, Santana told Brittany that the first rule in survival was to recognize the real wolves from those in the herd that were only pretending. "The wolves aren't necessarily more important than the sheep," Santana said, "but at least you know who can really hurt you."

"And Shuster?"

Santana sneered. "Underneath all that wolfskin is a terrified little lamb."

"He's going to be the President, Santana."

Santana waved her hands dismissively. "I can deal with Shuster."

Brittany had hummed thoughtfully when Santana had declared that, but now, as she watches Santana shake the President-Elect's hand one more time, she finally allows herself to believe it.

Santana makes a few more stops after that, talking briefly to other members of the Congress. As the House Majority Whip, Santana knows everyone; and as the youngest whip in history, everyone knows her.

Brittany takes a flute of champagne from a passing waiter just as Santana approaches the Vice President-Elect. Finn Hudson might be a bumbling political fool, but he's still part of the leadership, and Santana is nothing but charming as she exchanges a few words with him.

All of a sudden, Santana turns her head and meets Brittany's gaze. Angling her face out of Hudson's line of sight, she winks conspiratorially. Brittany chuckles in response, raising her glass at her wife.

"Brittany!"

She turns her head at the sound of her name, her lips transforming effortlessly into a practiced, winning smile. From across the room, Schuster's Chief of Staff is making his way towards her, waving eagerly.

"Kurt!" Brittany gushes when he reaches her, returning his embrace briefly. He belongs to the small group of men in the room whose touch she doesn't secretly recoil from. "What a pleasure it is to see you!"

"The pleasure is all mine," He responds, like clockwork. When he pulls away, he takes a moment to look at her dress appreciatively. "Let me see you!"

Brittany laughs and sets her flute down on the table. She stands on her toes and makes a quick spin. He claps a little when she finishes, then reaches forward to run his fingers over the smooth fabric.

"Stunning. You're more beautiful than ever, Brittany."

Brittany smiles a little and shakes her head, perfectly mimicking modesty. He almost coos at her display; he doesn't have a single clue.

"I hope you're complimenting my wife, Kurt." Santana calls playfully, as she steps next to them. Brittany tries not to shiver as Santana slowly and firmly slides her right hand around her waist. This moment is about work, not play. "She deserves to hear only good things, especially tonight."

"Of course," Kurt reassures, "I'd never dream of saying anything else." He smiles pleasantly at them both, before his expression turns slightly serious. "I am in your debt, after all. You got me hired."

"Did I?" Santana teases, reaching for Brittany's flute on the table and handing it to her. "No, that can't be true." She takes another glass for herself and very discreetly steers them slightly away. "It was all you, Hummel. The only thing I did was point the future Mr. President towards your direction."

They leave Kurt standing alone, looking pleased with himself. With her arm still around Brittany's waist, Santana leads them towards the closed doors by the right side of the stage. A waiter pulls one door open for them, bowing them out into the balcony. Brittany narrows her eyes slightly.

"I thought this section was off-limits for the guests tonight? Wasn't there a security concern?"

Santana shakes her head slightly, walking them closer to the edge. "No, they just wanted to keep everyone inside. I had Quinn pull some strings earlier." Her words release soft puffs of mist into the night. She squeezes Brittany's hip once, then pulls her arm away. "We're safe."

Brittany watches in curiosity as Santana casually tosses the contents of her flute over the edge, then sets the glass on the flat surface of the railing. She raises an eyebrow when Santana takes her own glass and does exactly the same.

"It was just a cheap bottle." She says, answering Brittany's silent question. "The Party wanted to cut costs that way. We deserve better." Brittany nods, but says nothing, reaching forward to run her free hand down Santana's arm instead.

Santana leans instantly into her. This is not the same Santana who was winning hearts just a few minutes ago. The politician has taken the backseat temporarily; this is her Santana now. This is her wife, shivering at her touch. "Your hands are cold." Brittany pauses, but Santana doesn't tell her to stop.

They stare out into the city landscape for a moment, watching the lights flickering in the distance. When the crowd inside the ballroom begins to countdown from twenty, Brittany finally speaks. "Is this going to be it, Santana?"

Santana turns to face her, clasping Brittany's wandering hand in her own. Her gaze unwavering, she raises Brittany's hand to her lips and kisses each of her knuckles. Brittany feels her body growing warm. "This is going to be a big year for us, Britt."

Brittany smiles her first real smile of the night, feeling overwhelmed. The countdown has dwindled down to ten. "Are you sure?"

Santana nods, moving closer. She pushes Brittany's hair back with both hands and stares deeply into her eyes. "I'm going to make you so proud to be my wife," she whispers.

The crowd inside begins to cheer for the New Year, and fireworks explode in the sky. Brittany almost doesn't notice. Santana's lips are on hers, her warm hands possessive as they caress her face. Brittany smiles as she wraps her arms around Santana and pulls her even closer.

This moment is everything. Her wife is sealing the promise of the world inside a single kiss.

* * *

Yes? No? Stop? Go?


	2. you may be good-looking

Disclaimer: I own nothing. Nobody really _owns_ anything, if you think about it.

A/N: Thanks for the reception, everyone. Some people seem to be concerned that you need to watch _HoC_ to understand this 'verse. You don't. This is a Brittana story before it is anything else. I'm not going to deny that I'm copying the basic plot of _HoC_, but I am trying to add stuff to make it a bit different. I will do my best to clarify anything I borrow. If there are vague references anyway, tell me, and I will try to explain it.

And as for the question of how similar Brittana will be to the Underwoods, I have no idea yet. (Can you imagine Santana killing for power? I can't.)

Also, thanks to HeyaBrittana for pointing out I misspelled Schuster. I laughed so hard when I realized why it looked wrong.

* * *

you may be good-looking (but you're not a piece of art)

The headquarters of the Women for Equality is a terribly cramped place. When Brittany first bought the property that holds it, there was only an empty, narrow hall that never got rented. "It's a temporary investment," she had told Santana, when she had raised her eyebrows at the choice. "With the hope of expansion in the near future."

Three years later, no such expansion has materialized. The charity seems to become smaller and smaller each year, with its tight cubicles and suffocated staff. But if Santana stays true to her promise, and all things go well this morning, then it isn't going to stay that way for long.

* * *

"Brittany, Ms. Wilde is here to see you."

Brittany forces herself not to grimace, and glances at the clock. Her guest is unexpected, abrupt, and early. She's going to need to think fast on her feet. "Send her in."

Unique nods once, then disappears. Brittany only has enough time to stand and smooth down her blazer before Unique reappears, Kitty Wilde following close behind her.

"Hello, Mrs. Lopez."

Brittany takes the hand offered to her, trying to match Kitty's ferocious smile. "Kitty. I heard you just made partner at Jackson-Hart. The first in …how many years now?" She waves Kitty towards the hardest chair in her office.

"Almost a decade."

"Impressive." Brittany glances surreptitiously at her phone as she settles across Kitty. No messages. "One of the youngest, too, right?"

Kitty's smile widens. She isn't fooled by the small talk. "The youngest, actually."

"Of course. Santana always did say you would make it far. Which accounts are you holding?"

Something in Kitty's face shifts. Her eyes narrow, her smile thins. "Like I'd ever believe Santana hasn't told you." The time for niceties has ended. "Brittany, Sylvester Corps is concerned that Santana isn't planning to honour our deal."

Brittany feels herself start to tense, and tries not to show it. Calmly, she replies, "Santana doesn't break her promises. You know that."

"I know that she doesn't break some of her promises." Kitty corrects. "I've worked with your wife for four years, Brittany." Kitty eyes Brittany across the desk. Brittany feels the tightness in her office more than ever. "I think there's only one promise she hasn't broken, one way or another."

"Be careful, Kitty. Insinuating my marriage isn't very professional, is it?"

"Spare me, please." Kitty coolly interjects. "Santana made this personal long before any of us even considered it." She waves her hand dismissively. "We couldn't care less either way. Our only concern is the deal. If Santana doesn't follow through, we'll take our business elsewhere."

Brittany clenches her jaw.

"You know what that means, don't you? She won't survive the next election without us." Kitty stands abruptly, and Brittany rises after her. She will never give Kitty the pleasure of talking down at her.

"Don't forget," Kitty warns, "if Santana's right, and the President vets her for Secretary of State today, you stand to gain, too. Sylvester Corps is prepared to pledge half a million dollars to your charity." Her gaze roams across Brittany's office. "I heard you had plans of expanding. I'd hate for that dream to go to waste. You've already lost so many."

Brittany holds her breath. If your opponent ever manages to hurt you, Santana told her once, never let them see the wound. But it's too late—Kitty's seen the wound, and she is smirking triumphantly.

"It's been wonderful seeing you again, Mrs. Lopez. I'll see myself out."

* * *

It's been hours since Kitty left, and Brittany still hasn't heard from Santana. It's beginning to get on her nerves.

"Hey. I feel stupid leaving you messages like this, Santana. Call me."

Before they parted ways that the morning, Santana said she was meeting with President Schuster and Chief of Staff Hummel at exactly ten. Then she promised to call as soon as it was over, to share the news with her before the White House staff made the official announcement.

Now it's turning six. It's been nine hours.

"I'm leaving for the day." Brittany informs Unique, pulling on her coat with a huff. "I might not be around tomorrow. Hold all my messages."

It isn't like Santana to ignore her like this. Brittany runs through the possible explanations behind her silence, and dislikes each one.

She reaches for her phone and dials again. "I swear to God, Santana."

* * *

It's almost midnight when Santana walks through the front door. Brittany can tell that she's trying to be discreet: she keeps the lights off and carries her heels in one hand.

On any other night it might be amusing. Tonight it just pisses her off even more.

Brittany flicks the lamp beside her, flooding the room with light. Santana jumps like a startled wild animal, dropping her heels.

"Brittany!" She whisper-shouts, clearly dismayed Brittany hasn't already gone to bed. Santana's face falls at the sight of Brittany's hard gaze. "I—"

"You didn't call."

Santana makes a step closer. "I know. Britt, I—"

"You didn't call." Brittany interrupts. "You can't do that, Santana. Not when it's this important."

Santana nods, her hands fidgeting. She steps closer into the light. "I know. I should have called. I just…" She takes in a shuddering breath. "I wanted to have a solution first."

Brittany wills her voice to calm. She's been upset all day, but it's nothing compared to how she feels now, seeing Santana like this. She hasn't seen this version of her wife in years. "Do you?" Santana shakes her head. "What happened?"

Santana says nothing for a long moment. "Schuster didn't even show up." Everything in Brittany clenches at the defeat in Santana's voice. "He couldn't even tell me himself." She laughs mirthlessly, and Brittany hates the sound. She watches Santana walk to the wall, and lean against it. Every single movement looks dulled. "I walked into a trap in Kurt's office, Britt."

"Kurt? Kurt was in on this?"

"He said I'm 'more useful' to the administration in Congress."

"But you wrote Schuster's entire foreign policy. You secured his presidency. Everyone knows that." Brittany shakes her head in disbelief. "They promised you Secretary of State."

"Yeah, well. 'The circumstances have changed,'" Santana quotes, exaggerating Kurt's high voice. She snorts. "I can't believe I got him hired."

Brittany's mind races. Kurt must have already known they were going to betray Santana when he complimented her the other night. "We underestimated him." He was just buttering them up for the frying pan. "First Kitty Wilde, then Kurt Hummel. This is becoming inconvenient."

"What? What does Kitty Wilde have to do with any of this?"

"She came into my office today."

"What? Why didn't you—"

"I tried," Brittany says dryly. "You wouldn't pick up any of my calls." Santana opens her mouth, but Brittany cuts her off. "They're worried you aren't going to deliver on your deal." Brittany runs through the conversation in her mind. "I told her there was nothing to worry about, but she didn't believe me. She must have already known."

"She might have." Santana agrees. She studies Brittany for a long moment. "She said something else, didn't she?"

Kitty smirk flashes in Brittany's mind, and she breaks her gaze. Santana pushes herself off the wall automatically, and moves closer. Brittany can feel the dullness fading away; everything about Santana is becoming sharper again. "Britt."

Brittany shakes her head. "It doesn't matter."

"Britt."

Brittany sighs. "She just wanted to treat me like an idiot."

Santana's eyes flash dangerously. "What did she say?"

"She made some comments."

"That bitch," Santana growls. There it is. This is the anger Brittany's been waiting for. "What was it? Did she talk about the dancing?"

Brittany shrugs. It hurts to recount, but if this is what Santana needs to get back on track, she'll suffer the wound all over again. "She was being vague. It might have been the baby, too."

"No class." Santana sneers, as she begins to pace, fuming. It's never pleasant to rile Santana up. But they've been together for so long now, and she's already tried everything else. Nothing has ever managed to ground and motivate Santana as much as her anger. "This isn't over. I swear to you, Brittany." She marches abruptly to Brittany, before dropping to her knees before her. Santana takes her hands—it's a little rough, but Brittany doesn't mind—and grasps them tightly. "I'm going to fulfill my promise. It's going to be harder than I thought, but I don't care." She kisses her palms, her fingers. "You, me, and the world, baby. I won't stand for anything less."

* * *

Nay? Yay? Leave? Stay?


	3. a human vulnerability

Disclaimer: I own nothing.

A/N: Fair warning, I tried something new in this update. Doesn't exactly work perfectly yet, but give me some time to get her voice right.

* * *

a human vulnerability  
(doesn't mean that i am weak)

Every night, Santana spends an hour doing something completely different from work. The thinking process, she had come to learn, was often helped along by some kind of mindless task—Einstein in a post office; Feynman in strip clubs—and she decided she would attempt to recreate those kinds of conditions for true inspiration.

In the early days, when she was still grooming herself for the political arena—top position at the university student council, of course—she experimented extensively to discover what she could fill the hour with.

First, she tried playing video games. She sat in the darkness of her college dorm room for an hour for several days, and learned how to play _Call of Duty_. But after several weeks—in which she had gotten a lot of gaming done, sometimes even exceeding her one-hour limit—she stopped, recognizing how her chosen mindless task was becoming a distraction.

She then turned to her second option, teaching herself to play a musical instrument. But while her brand new keyboard was state-of-the-art—and while her fingers got a good work out from the lessons—ultimately it was a terrible fit, a second distraction, so she donated her instrument to a local music therapy group on campus.

The third—solving word and number problems—was one of the easiest of the options, which was why she had to give it up. It was simply too mindless for any real planning to happen.

Desperate, she tried more unconventional options: watching porn, for example. Within a week she had blocked all porn sites from her laptop, annoyed by the persistent misogyny in majority of the content.

Then she turned to alcohol. First she tried drinking only beer. After a boring few nights, she switched, and tried drinking only whiskey. Then only scotch. Then only tequila.

Initially the tequila seemed was a jackpot, but the result from an hour of intense alcoholic consumption was never pleasant the following morning.

Then one night, at a second year party, Quinn introduced her to smoking. She knew she had found her match, from the first cigarette. She relished in the burn of the smoke as it filled her lungs, the rush of the taste as she exhaled into the night. For almost a year she nursed her habit, smoking for an hour every evening to think.

She would have loved to continue, but smoking was off the table the moment she met Brittany, because Brittany hated smoking. She hated how it looked, how it smelled, how it tasted on Santana's tongue.

"I really like you, Santana," Brittany said, as she resisted Santana's first attempt to kiss her, "but I don't do smokers."

"Then I won't do smoking," Santana replied. Brittany smiled, pleased, and kissed let herself be kissed. And that was it.

Ridding herself of the habit was more difficult than Santana expected, but not as hard as she was told it would be. For the first few nights whenever she felt the urge to smoke, she would take a long walk around the campus to think, until the urge eventually subsided.

Occasionally, Brittany joined her, and in silence they would stroll alongside each other, hands brushing in the darkness. On those nights, the urge to smoke was miniscule compared to other, more visceral urges Santana felt. They swept through her veins, spreading throughout her entire body, resisting Santana's poor attempts at repression, until she could swear she was losing her mind.

One night, her walk was interrupted by a sudden downpour. She found herself running to Brittany's dorm, closer than hers, leaving puddles of water as she slipped and stumbled to her room.

When Brittany saw her outside her door, drenched like a kitten lost at sea, she laughed and pushed her into the tub, turning the water to a setting that was more hot than warm. Outraged, Santana pulled her along, and they fell into the too-small space together. They pushed against each other, then pulled into each other, and all the urges Santana felt flared hot like the tip of a burning cigarette.

That was the first time they spent naked in a tub of near-scalding water. By the end of the night, after Brittany burned pleasure between her legs, Santana had her head thrown back against ceramic, her mind firing plans faster than the speed of light.

Forget smoking. She needed to have this, every night, for the rest of her life.

.oOo.

"Where did you go after the meeting?" Santana smiles at Brittany's question, and tightens her arms around Brittany's waist. Brittany reacts by trailing her hand up and down Santana's shin. Santana watches the movement, mesmerized by the sight of flexing muscles. Only Brittany's touch could unwind her after such a painfully punishing day. No one else in the world could make her feel relaxed like this.

"I sat in a movie house downtown."

Brittany's hand stops; Santana twitches her leg impatiently to get her to start again. "What did you see?"

Santana shrugs carelessly, leaning forward to meet Brittany's shoulder with her lips. "I think it was a Disney film."

Brittany laughs softly. "Don't they usually kick you out after every show?"

Santana nods. "I bought a ticket for every new one."

"Santana."

"I know." She drops another kiss against Brittany's shoulder, then works her way up, one inch at a time. When she reaches the spot behind Brittany's ear, she murmurs, "It was wasteful. I should have just come home."

"Yes, you should have," Brittany agrees, breathless. "I would have made you feel better, baby."

With one hand, Santana tangles her fingers in Brittany's hair, and turns her head slightly to kiss her. When she pulls back, Brittany settles more comfortably into her, and she resumes her kisses along Brittany's neck.

After a silence punctuated only by Santana's lips on her skin, Brittany speaks again. "If not you, then who?"

Santana rolls her eyes, even if she knows Brittany won't see it. "Samuel Evans."

Brittany tenses against her. "That's insulting."

Santana hums in agreement. "Everyone knows he can't handle Secretary of State, but he does make a good poster boy." She scoffs. "I can't wait to see him screw up."

When Brittany stops her hand, and responds only with silence, Santana frowns.

"What?"

Brittany waits another moment, before finally sighing, "So you plan on waiting for him to screw up?"

Santana closes her eyes, and takes a deep breath. "No, of course not. With the right advisors, it could take him years before he does some real damage." She leans her head against the cool marble behind her. "We can't wait that long. I've got to speed things up and push him along."

Brittany nods, and starts stroking her shin again. "Do you know what you have to do?"

Santana opens her eyes and stares at Brittany's arm again, admiring the muscles as they ripple underneath the surface of her skin. As she watches, a droplet of water begins to slide down Brittany's arm sinuously, collecting other beads as it makes its descent.

Santana smiles, an idea taking shape in her mind. "Yes, I do. I'll have to run it by Quinn tomorrow morning."

Brittany shifts in Santana's arms, turning to face her. "Good."

They look at each other for beat. Santana feels her chest tighten, then her throat, and she begins, "I'm really sorr—"

Brittany shakes her head, and silences her with a kiss.

.oOo.

When Santana walks into her office the next morning—_House Majority Whip_, engraved on the marble—her secretary switches the lobby television off instantly. Santana doesn't need to ask what for—she knows Sam Evans's face is plastered all over the news screens, gloating about his Security of State nomination. She appreciates the sentiment, but finds it unnecessary. Pretty soon the only picture of Evans will be of his blubbering face.

"Good morning, Rachel. You don't need to turn that off, I don't mind."

"It's alright, Mrs. Lopez, he wasn't saying anything worth listening to anyway." Rachel responds instantly. "Ms. Fabray is waiting inside."

Santana nods, heading deeper into her real office. "Cancel everything I have today, and don't let anyone come through this door."

"Yes, Ma'am."

Santana smiles to herself as she pushes the door open. There's something relieving about reaffirming her people's loyalty to her.

"Mrs. Lopez." Her Chief of Staff greets her, as she sits by Santana's table, flipping through screens on her iPad. As always, Quinn shrouds her fatigue with timeless grace.

"I take it you've heard?" Santana asks, dropping her case on the table.

"Of course." Quinn looks up at her, eyes sharp. "I've had reporters calling me all morning, asking for a statement."

Santana nods. That was expected. "What have you been telling them?"

Quinn's lips twitch. "That we are, as always, completely supportive of our leadership's decisions."

Santana nods again, beginning to pace. "Very good. We need to keep up appearances."

"I thought so, too." Quinn stands, and leans against the table. "But I have to admit, I was under the impression that this was a done deal."

"So was I. But Schuster, Hummel—they were playing us all along."

"Deception from Schuster, and Hummel? That takes a lot of idiocy. Both owe you their position. Their reputation."

"Brittany said the same thing."

"How is she taking all this?"

Santana takes a deep breath. "Better than she should have to." She pauses her pacing. "Kitty Wilde paid her a visit yesterday, so that's another moving piece we need to control, fast."

Quinn frowns. "That's a complication, but nothing we can't handle." She hesitates, then asks, "What do you have in mind now? Revenge?"

Santana shakes her head. "Too juvenile. Mindlessly knocking off pieces one by one from the board isn't going to guarantee a win. We've got to look at the big picture here."

Santana turns to Quinn, waiting for her to comprehend. It takes a moment, but Quinn begins to nod slowly. "I think I understand. Evans first?" Santana smiles in confirmation. "Who do you have in mind to replace him?"

Santana unbuttons her blazer. "Get me a list of names. It's going to be a long morning."

.oOo.

Halfway through the afternoon, Santana finds herself sitting in a senator's office. She and Quinn had been poring over names all morning—"Motta?" "Qualified but uninterested." "Israel?" "Pervert." "Gilbert?" "Maybe, but the LGBT is his true passion. Let's keep him there to fight the good fight for us."

It was only when Quinn had rattled off "Blaine Anderson?" that Santana had sat straight, eyes bright.

"He's perfect."

"Are you sure? He's been vocally against Schuster's campaign."

Santana had laughed. "All the more. I know something about him that might prove to be very useful."

And now here she was, sitting in an office twice the size of her own, waiting for Senator Blaine Anderson to finish pouring her coffee.

"Not that I'm not honoured to have you, Mrs. Lopez—"

Santana waves her hand in a carefully calculated show of carelessness. "Santana, please."

"Santana," Anderson corrects—when he smiles, Santana knows her charm is working—"but I'm not sure to what I owe the pleasure."

If she knew Anderson any better, she would just come out and ask him what she needs. But this is still new territory, and she needs to tread lightly. "I realized this morning that when I was endorsing Kurt Hummel that I never asked you for your opinion." She accepts the cup from him graciously. "I know it's too late now, but I'd still like to know what you think."

Anderson takes a sip of his coffee, watching her over the steam. "Why would think I would have anything to say about Kurt Hummel?"

Santana smiles lightly. "Weren't you and Hummel a thing, back in the day?"

Anderson chuckles, just as lightly. "How did you know that? Never mind, don't tell me." He puts his cup back into its saucer. "It's no wonder you make such a good majority whip, knowing what you know."

"I try."

He chuckles again. "We almost got married at some point. Can you imagine that?"

Santana doesn't miss for one second how he glazes over her question. Still, she shakes her head politely, even if she can imagine that. It would have been such a fabulous wedding. "What happened?"

Anderson tilts his head, eyes turning to the side briefly. "We both wanted very different things." Partly true, Santana supposes—they both cheated on each other with other people.

"And yet here you both are, in Washington." Santana smiles again. "Have you considered rekindling the relationship?"

He almost chokes with laughter. "No, not at all. Not in the slightest." He shakes his head. "We're different people now. I could never endorse Schuster the way Kurt does." He quiets, suddenly looking serious. "And I was right. Look at the way he dropped you for Secretary of State."

Santana maintains eye contact, ignoring the reminder and dropping the act. Now, for the real meeting. "Shouldn't you be happy? Isn't Evans something like a friend to you?"

Anderson snorts, leaning forward. "No." He says it with such finality, Santana doesn't find any room to doubt him. "I burned that bridge long ago." His eyebrow rises. "But why do you ask?"

Santana smirks. "We might be able to help each other, then. You wouldn't mind doing something unorthodox, would you?"

"Well, that depends." He matches her smile easily. "How unorthodox are we talking?"

.oOo.

As soon as Santana leaves the office, her multiple goals are replaced by a single one: telling Brittany everything. The plans have been set back in place, and all she needs is a few more parts before they can be put in motion. She knows it will only please Brittany to hear that they are back on track.

But when she arrives home and finds complete darkness, she knows telling Brittany will have to wait.

"Brittany?"

She closes the door behind her and turns on the light of the hallway. She pulls her shoes off and listens.

The house is too silent to be truly empty.

"Britt?"

She walks up the staircase, the sound of her footsteps dulled by the carpet. She walks into their bedroom, and switches the light on. She almost draws back, until she sees the two-piece suit Brittany has laid out. She approaches it slowly, staring at the shoes Brittany has set out at the foot of their bed.

Frowning, she leaves the room and heads for their master bathroom. "Baby?"

The bathroom is dark, but Santana can make out the faint shape of Brittany, reclined in the tub. She walks over quietly and sits on the tiled ground, reaching out to touch her wife.

Brittany jerks awake when Santana lays her hand on her arm. "Baby." Santana reproaches softly. Brittany blinks, disoriented, shocked at the darkness of the room and the coldness of the water. "I thought we agreed you weren't going to sleep in the tub anymore. Especially if I wasn't around to keep an eye on you."

Brittany nods, mumbling an apology. Santana reaches up to turn on the drain, and the outline of Brittany's pruned, shivering body becomes clearer as the tub empties.

When all the water has drained, Santana grabs blindly for a towel and climbs into the tub. She wraps it around Brittany, and pulls her towards her body heat. She knows she's comforting herself just as much as she is comforting her wife. Something is wrong, she can tell—Brittany only spends hours soaking in the tub without her if something is amiss—but she isn't going to push.

She rubs her hands up and down Brittany's back, until she finally hears, in a muted whisper, "Too many reminders of the past. First, Kitty's comment yesterday, then…" She trails off. After taking a breath, she continues, "Mike called me this morning. After you left for work."

Santana hands clenches, and her nose flares. Michael Chang. Just hearing his name was enough to make her feel like punching a hole through something. When was he going to stop ghosting into their lives like this?

"His troupe is on tour. He wants me to see them."

"Tonight?"

Brittany nods against her collarbone. "In about an hour."

Santana inhales deeply, fighting the urge to flare up. Brittany doesn't deserve to receive the brunt of her sudden anger. It will only tire them both faster, and they've already had such a long day apart. All she wants to do is rest, but still, she asks, "Do you want to go?"

Santana feels Brittany's head move, until a chin is against her chest. "Do you?"

"Of course not," Santana whispers, matching Brittany's tone. "I hate him so much, Brittany, I don't know what I'll do if I see him." She feels Brittany's body sag against her in disappointment. Sighing, she amends, "But you know that I'll come with you if you want me to, baby."

Brittany head shifts again, and Santana feels her press her ear to her chest. Brittany listens to the deep beating of Santana's heart for a long moment, before she sighs, calmed. "Thank you."

* * *

_Terri-fic? Horri-fic? _


	4. think you're gonna break my heart

Disclaimer: I own nothing.

A/N: I am so sorry for the delay. I'm practically writing one update a month; that simply won't do. I want to speed things up, and I don't want this to draw out too much—I think at least ten, at most fifteen, chapters? After all, I still have _Hide and Seek_ and _Eight Minutes_ to finish writing. (And after that, I have a final Brittana project in mind that I want to complete before the show ends.)

* * *

think you're gonna break my heart

Santana didn't want to be there. Brittany didn't need to ask to know for sure; they had the best seats in the theatre, but her wife's posture was stiff, her arms tucked into herself, and her neck too tense. Brittany's palms were itching to smooth her muscles, her tongue rolling around calming words—_it's okay, you don't need to be so tense, I'm fine_—but Santana had a policy against too much touching in public.

"Everything must always be casual,"—Santana's instructions, so many years ago, for their first public appearance as a couple—"we need to look comfortable with our intimacy without flaunting it too much. Remember, everything can be used against us."

The theatre dims for the performance, and a rhythmic drumming begins to sound. Something in Brittany's body begins to pulse to the music, but she resists the urge to do anything more than sit.

Instead, she turns to her wife. Santana's neck is strained even more. The vein beneath her ear throbs to the beat, looking dangerously close to popping. Brittany sighs, and gently nudges Santana's arm with her fingers. Santana turns sharply to face her—even in the dim light, Brittany can recognize Santana's eyebrow, raised in question—but she relaxes when Brittany unites their palms, and links their fingers together.

Santana squeezes her hand when light fills the stage. Six dancers stand frozen, facing outwards, spaced quite far apart. They hold their position long enough for Brittany to recognize the man at the very front—Mike Chang, not at all looking older than when she last saw him—then the dancers break into perfectly synchronized movement, like parts of an old photograph fracturing into life. Brittany ceases to think, feeling the deep pulse sliding into the pit of her body, warming her with the hot burn of longing.

.oOo.

The curtain falls, and the theatre explodes into applause. Brittany is roused, abruptly, from the trance of the performance. She tries to smile as she turns to Santana, words already prepared on her tongue. "That was great."

Santana stares at Brittany unblinkingly, seeing in her face the words she won't say at loud. All around them people are rising from their seats, shuffling noisily to the aisles. The chaos provides just the right amount of cover.

Brittany watches as Santana raises her thumb towards her, wiping gently across Brittany's cheek, wiping away the moisture there. Then she whispers, quietly, seriously, "You would have been greater."

Brittany feels her face threaten to crumple and resists with every ounce of control she has. Instead, she turns her head towards Santana's palm, and presses a single kiss there in gratitude.

.oOo.

"Noah's bringing the car around in a couple of minutes."

Brittany nods absently, staring out into the street. A number of people linger by the entrance, approaching the dancers to congratulate them as they exit. She can hear Santana muttering her impatience, eager to leave this night behind them.

But Brittany knows it isn't over yet.

"BRITTANY!"

It's Santana who turns first, narrowing her eyes to focus on someone approaching. Brittany doesn't need to look, she knows who it is. Instead of turning, too, she watches Santana's face for confirmation: when it folds into a cold mask, Brittany receives her confirmation. Mike Chang is pushing past the swell of the crowd to reach them.

"Santana," Brittany breathes, pasting on her perfect, politician's-wife-smile, even as she feels the tension prick along her skin. "Behave."

Santana growls once. Brittany can feel her moving closer like a possessive shadow—a hand grips her waist, hard—then she feels, more than hears, Santana's hiss: "If he says or does anything—"

Brittany smile shifts wider before she can help it, and she murmurs back, "I'll give you permission to break his nose."

Mike rushes towards them, and Brittany steps out of Santana's clutch to step into his embrace. "Brittany," he greets, kissing her cheek. "I'm so glad you came."

"Of course," Brittany replies easily, pecking him back once. His skin is sticky with sweat. "I wouldn't miss it for the world. It was truly spectacular, wasn't it, Santana?"

"It was," Santana agrees succinctly. Her eyes are almost imperceptibly narrowed. Brittany knows it's because Mike's still got his arms around her. Santana sticks her hand out forcefully, forcing Mike to disentangle his body from Brittany's to shake it. "As always, Michael, your choreography was superb. Your dancers were certainly something."

"Thanks, Santana. I'll make sure to tell them Washington's best whip thinks they're something." The sarcasm isn't lost to Santana, who responds with a thin smile. "They've got nothing on your beautiful wife, though." He turns his attention back to Brittany, grinning. "Still no way I could convince you out of retirement, Britt? The New York studio is just waiting for you."

From the corner of her eyes, Brittany can see Santana bristling. Brittany smiles evenly, knowing her wife is picking up on her own tension. "You know it isn't that simple, Mike. I haven't danced in years."

His expression falters slightly, but he continues, undeterred, "That doesn't need to be a problem. We could condition you back, you know. If you're interested, I could—"

"That's really sweet, Mike," Brittany interrupts, laying a hand on his chest to silence him. It's difficult to do when all she wants to do is land a punch. At least it works like a charm; he looks for a moment like he's swallowed his tongue. "But I don't really have the time." She takes a step back, right into Santana's arms. Brittany's hand automatically covers the warm hand that wraps around her waist.

Mike glances at the place where Brittany's hand covers Santana's—their matching gold rings glint in the light—then looks directly at her. "It doesn't need to be now, or any time soon. After the tour ends we're taking a break, then we're going to start choreographing a new show. You could visit us then." His eyes dart quickly to Santana, then back to Brittany. "You could use the break."

Brittany maintains her smile, even as she feels Santana begin to vibrate with thinly veiled rage. She tightens her grasp on her wife's hand in warning. "I'm needed here."

Something in Mike's eyes shifts, and his expression turns serious. "Are you sure, Brittany? If—" His face darkens. "If this is about what happened, I… I don't want to be the reason you don't get to do what you love, Britt."

Something snaps inside Brittany. She feels her lips twist into something other than a smile. Where was this feeling when she needed to beat Kitty Wilde down with a stick? "Don't presume to understand what I do and don't love, Mike."

Brittany turns away, just in time to see Noah come into a smooth stop before them. He steps out of the driver's seat to open the passenger's door for them. "Mrs. Lopez," he greets, as Brittany slides into the dark interior. Brittany tries to smile back. She isn't sure if she succeeds.

"Britt—" Mike starts to call after her, but he falls silent at the look on Noah's face. Santana smiles and slides after her wife, looking at their host one last time. Right before the door closes on his face, she drops the smile to reveal her snarl.

"Until next time, Michael."

.oOo.

"I don't understand why you wanted to go in the first place."

Brittany feels Santana scrutinizing her profile, but keeps her face angled away, staring out the window into the night. "I know. You tell me every time we see a show."

Santana slides closer. "You know I only say so because I don't like how these things make you feel."

Brittany nods, blinking rapidly to keep the tears at bay. Santana reaches for her, and pulls her head to her shoulder. She smoothes her hand down Brittany head softly, her fingers running through the strands of her hair. "Did you do anything useful today?" The words come out like gasps, but she forces them through anyway.

"I might have a viable replacement for Evans. Do you remember Blaine Anderson? The senator?"

It takes Brittany a moment. Finally, she takes a deep breath. "The one Kurt used to date?" She exhales in a shudder. "Are you sure?"

"It will only mean more to him since it's personal."

"To Kurt or to the senator?"

Santana smirks. "Both. I need it to mean more to both."

Brittany hums, considering. "Kitty did say you turned things personal before they did."

"The personal is political."

Brittany nods, burying her face closer to her wife's neck. "What do you need now?"

Santana stays silent for moment. When she speaks again, there's a catch in her voice. "Well, the priority at this point is to find a mouthpiece. I need my words to be heard without my voice accompanying them."

Brittany tries to hear what it was Santana was trying to say. The catch in her voice was certainly hesitation, but why? A mouthpiece was simple enough: a journalist, or newscaster; someone high-profile enough to get the word out. Was there something—Brittany closes her eyes in realization. "You already have someone in mind, don't you?"

Santana's hesitation runs even longer. "Yes."

Brittany keeps her eyes closed as she takes another deep breath. She pulls away carefully to look at her wife. The guilt on her face constricts painfully around Brittany's heart.

"Are you sure, Santana?"

She feels her wife's hand close over hers, squeezing tightly.

Brittany turns back to the window. The night is even darker now. "If you think she's best."

.oOo.

Santana is gone by the time Brittany wakes up in the morning. It's unusual; while they don't normally leave together, they always make it a point to say goodbye at the very least. Brittany tries not to over-think what Santana's change in the pattern means.

She rolls out of bed, and stares at the carpet beneath her feet. Her mind begins to fall back into the memory of the previous night, but she rallies against it. There was no point in indulging the longing that the sight of dancing made her feel. Santana was right; it didn't make sense for her to torture herself every time a good troupe was in the city. Maybe last night would finally be the last time.

Brittany steps into the shower. As soon as she arrives in work she needs to do something she's dreading: she has to tell every single one of her employees that their promised funding would not materialize.

This was the loss Santana so easily overlooked. She was so easily distracted by the political ramifications, she didn't even remember what Brittany had lost. Not that Brittany wanted to actively remind her; from the very start Santana had warned her that being a politician's wife demanded numerous sacrifices.

But this was not a sacrifice Brittany expected she would have to make. Brittany tried to imagine what it would be break the news to her people. What was that conversation going to be like? All the plans they'd been making, all the changes they hoped to create: gone, at the whim of a disgruntled old rich bitch. Why did Santana have to go and screw over Sue Sylvester?

.oOo.

Nobody takes the news well. Brittany can feel the disappointment in her employees' eyes; many of them can't even look at her.

"This is a setback," Brittany acknowledges, speaking off the script she'd drafted in the shower. "But it doesn't need to mean we're going backwards. We are more committed to our cause now than ever. We just need to deal a little bit longer with the resources that we already have."

"But we aren't getting anywhere with what we have," one of her employees points out. "We've been stagnating for a year."

"I'm sorry you see it that way." Brittany replies calmly, even as her throat tightens. "I assure you, we have been making significant progress in our cause." She sighs when no one speaks up to agree with her. "I know it's frustrating. But I also know that this is not the end. We've faced many losses together, and made it through each one. I promise you that we will make it through this, and emerge even stronger than before." Brittany makes her best smile. Some try smiling back, but many look away, dragging themselves back into their cubicles.

No one seems to believe her word anymore. She understands. She doesn't believe herself, either. She manages to maintain her smile as she instructs softly to Unique, "Hold my calls for the rest of the morning." She barely makes it into her office before her smile shatters, and the lump in her throat chokes her to tears.

.oOo.

Unique knocks on her door much later in the morning. When she enters on Brittany's permission, she's carrying in her arms a large bouquet of various, bright flowers. "What's this?" Brittany asks quickly, standing. "Who sent them?"

Unique sets the flowers down on her spare table. "They weren't sent. They were personally delivered."

It wasn't Santana's style to bring her flowers. "Who delivered them?"

Unique gestures towards the door, Mike pokes his head into the room, smiling cautiously. "Hello, Brittany."

Brittany stiffens, and her mind blanks. When Unique shifts uncomfortably, her mind fires back up, and anger floods hotly into her body. She shoots her secretary a disbelieving look. She gets the hint, and leaves the room silently, as Mike steps into it. He peers into her face curiously. "Brittany, have you been cryi—"

"Take them back." Brittany hisses, nodding sharply at the flowers. When he makes a move to sit in one of her chairs, she shakes her head adamantly. "I swear to God, Mike. This is my office. Do you have any idea what people are going to say?"

Mike has the gall to look affronted. "They'll say I came over to give an old friend a gift."

Brittany scoffs. "Sure, if you came with a fruit basket. These are expensive flowers, Mike. My wife is a politician; people are going to make up stories when there are none to tell."

Mike holds up his hands in surrender. "Alright, alright. I'll take them back." He swipes the flowers off the table, a few loose petals falling to the floor. "I didn't think it through. I'm sorry." He sucks in a quick breath. "I just wanted to apologize. I said some things last night…I was out of line."

Brittany still feels furious—about the flowers, about the performance, about Mike Chang standing in her office—but she knows the sooner she lets this go the sooner he leaves. She raises her fingers to her temples, rubbing furiously at the headache pounding there. "You were way out of line. Neither Santana nor I are strangers to insult, Mike. But coming from you? It was disgusting. Insinuating I needed a break from my wife? Who the hell do you think you are?"

Mike nods, shame-faced. "I'm sorry, Brittany."

She sighs, staring him in the eye. "I know. I know, and Santana knows, too." Probably knows, she amends in her mind. She drops back to her seat, returning to the document awaiting her perusal. "You're a really old friend, Mike. But don't think that means you can say whatever you want whenever you want."

"Alright."

"And don't call next time you're in town. I don't think I want to see you any time soon."

Mike stays silent for a long moment, before agreeing quietly. When Brittany says nothing more, she hopes he gets the hint to leave. He turns to go, trailing petals behind him. By the door, he looks over his shoulder. "There's one thing I'm not taking back, though. The New York offer is always going to be on the table, Brittany. If you wanted to try something different for a while…you should come check us out."

He waits for Brittany to nod once before finally leaving.

.oOo.

Brittany's barely recovered from Mike's visit when Unique knocks on her door again. "Brittany," she says urgently, "Ms. Wilde is here to see you."

Brittany sits up instantly. "Fuck!"

Kitty doesn't even wait for an invitation; she struts into Brittany's office like she owns it. "Mrs. Lopez! It's wonderful to see you so soon after our last meeting."

"Kitty." Brittany greets, trying not to grit the word through her teeth. She knows she must look terrible; she barely re-touched her make-up after crying earlier in the morning. If Mike could tell, Kitty would definitely notice.

She prepares herself for an onslaught of insults, but Kitty doesn't mention her messed up mascara at all. Instead, she takes out a thick envelope from the inside pocket of her blazer, and drops it on Brittany's table. It lands with a loud slap. "Sylvester Corps is willing to give Santana an alternative to the promise she failed to keep." She crosses her arms while Brittany reaches for the envelope and pries it open. "The details are all there. We need Santana to know about it by tonight."

Brittany glances through the pages. "Climate Change Reform?" She narrows her eyes. "Why don't you just tell her yourself? Aren't you free to visit the Hill whenever you want to?"

Kitty smirks. "We learned a long time ago that Santana hears things more effectively when they come from you." Her expression transforms, until she's staring menacingly. "If Santana doesn't come through on this deal, Brittany, everything will be over for her." Brittany flushes. She realizes with a jolt that she's still sitting; Kitty is finally talking down to her. "Do you understand?"

Brittany doesn't reply, but she doesn't need to. Instead she stands slowly, relishing in the extra inches that allow her to tower over her visitor. "It's such a pleasure to see you again, Kitty. Kindly see yourself out of my office."

.oOo.

Santana picks up on the first ring. "Hello?"

Brittany opens her mouth, but the wrong words come out. "You sound breathless."

Santana laughs lightly. "I'm running late. I'm meeting the journalist for lunch."

Brittany feels something inside her clench. "Oh."

"Yes."

"So soon?"

"We need to get all the pieces on the board, Brittany. Things are going to move very quickly in the next few days." Santana's voice muffles slightly; Brittany can hear her confirming the reservation, wherever it is they're meeting.

It's been so long since Santana's taken her out.

"I've got to go, Brittany. I'll call you later."

Brittany feels something seize inside her. No, don't go yet. "I love you."

Santana sounds distant when she replies, like she's already pulled the phone away from her face. "You, too."

The line disconnects, and Brittany slumps over her desk. She didn't even manage to tell Santana what she called to say.


End file.
